


Risking Life and Limb

by Randomosity



Category: End Times: Vermintide, Warhammer Fantasy
Genre: Amputation, Battle Field Amputation, I blame tumblr for this, Loss of Limbs, We’re hurting the Puritan again
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-05-29 16:21:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15077030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Randomosity/pseuds/Randomosity
Summary: The work they do is far from safe, mortal wounds are commonplace, and risk of life is part of the job.The Ubersriek five are accustomed to violence and pain, unshakable, Rat-men and Northlanders have tried their best and failed time and time again to halt their righteous fury.Yet there is tension.Survival is an effort, made all the harder by their enemies desperation. It would seem, for once, their desperation overshadows the will to live unscathed.





	1. Average as it may be...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wedge_Antilles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wedge_Antilles/gifts).



There is much confusion on the battle field today.

“Ambush!” Saltzpyre cries, “And we fell for it!” It seems as though the longer the group goes on together the less and less serious that statement sounds from him. It’s almost a joke now, how often they’re caught unawares just to simply walk out of the scuffle the last things living.

It doesn’t sound as amused anymore. How does one sneak in heavy plate mail? How do several? How are you caught off guard by a Northlander patrol, overwhelmed Skaven slaves and clan rats, left to fight for your life with your back to a wall of earth

The swarm had cut between them like a knife. 

To his left, separated by a wall of rat men the gleam of a dwarven helm peers out between flailing limbs, joined by Bardin’s hearty laughter as he bashes his attackers in the knees and chest with his shield and hammer.

To his right, a near constant wave of heat as Sienna draws large globes of flame from the tip of her staff and hurls them through huge masses, pausing between throws to bat them away with the broad end of the staff.

Somewhere to his rear is Saltzpyre, soundless all for the irregular fire of a flintlock and clashes of steel, his foot steps drowned out by the roaring carnage surrounding them.

So he presses forward, encouraged to slaughter en bloc, pulling back to keep close with his companions despite the hordes best efforts.

How then, with how careful he’d been to stay close and keep them in view, does he find himself being pulled away from them? Pressured to the edge of the horde, singled out by at least three Northlander knights, clad in rotting plate and hungry for the carnage they’ve since been denied by the swarm.

Carnage his squishy body is sure to provide.


	2. To Spare Another

He brings his sword up to block again, arms shaking, armor rattling as he tries to recover from the kneel he’d been forced into. He realizes, with only moments till that axe is upon him, that he can barely hold his blade up to greet it.

_He can’t deflect that._

There’s a familiar bang of a flintlock and the Rothelm rocks backwards on it’s heels, stumbling uncoordinatedly as the pellet ricochetes off its helmet.

Saltzpyre brushes past with rapier drawn, abandoning the now empty pistol at Krubers feet as he steps forward, plunging the tip of his blade into the Chaos Warriors stomach between plates of armor. 

He is, for a moment, in awe at the mans speed and precision. But only for a moment.

The Rothelm twist sideways and the blade snaps at the force and angle. Saltzpyre drops the hilt of his blade now that it’s lost it’s use, diving for one of the many pistols on his frame, halted by a large armored fist colliding with his face.

The punch lands with enough force that Markus can hear his nose shatter on impact, even over the death squeals of Skaven.

Both of his hands instinctively come up to clutch his face, looking up at his opponent between his fingers as blood dribbles into his mouth. He stumbles backwards, dazed but hopeful to be out of range of what he knows is coming next.

The axe is raised as Kruber forces himself to his feet, the muscles in his legs screaming with exertion, watching Victor raise the only armored arm he has. They both know it won’t help him.

Saltzpyre screams and drops to his knees as the Rothelms axe bares down on him with a horrible tearing noise, the full force of its body put into that swing. Kruber forces himself to ignore it, to ignore him, rushing past and driving his sword into the gap between cowl and helm now available with the chaos warrior bent to withdraw it’s axe. 

The northlander shudders and goes limp, it’s heavy body nearly pulling him to the ground along with it as it topples over.

He abandons his sword there, whirling on the spot to where Saltzpyre is still kneeling. His breaths crackle with pain, whistling between clenched teeth and interrupted by shudders and sobs as he stares at his arm. 

The one no longer attached to his body. 

It’s gloved fingers twitch with aftershocks as the limb itself dies, the thin plating around what was once his lower bicep crumpled with impact and splattered in blood, leading toward the gorey mess of flesh and fat that had once joined it to the rest of him.

His other hand is tight around his remaining stump of a bicep, blood pouring from between his fingers as he chokes back his own screams.

Kruber can feel bile rising in his throat as he comes to terms with recognizing splintered bone peaking out between his fingers. Victor doesn’t move for the healing kit in the pouch at his hip, he just sits there as if frozen by the realization that _that is an arm. That is his arm, bleeding out in the dirt, still and lifeless before him._

“Bardin!” Markus calls out, looking around, over the battlefield in search of his companions. “Sienna!” 

They’re still fighting, finishing off their remaining opponents, make-shift spears and knives swung with fleeting hope to kill one of the other two. 

He kneels beside him, tugging at his lapels, at his shoulder and tunic trying to usher him into moving. “The pack, sir, where’s the pack?!” He demands, flipping the clasps on the pockets of his belt, frisking him in frantic search of the one thing that might keep him from bleeding out.

Victor doesn’t answer or move, he sits there heaving as his good eye rolls lazily in its socket, its focus falling to the mangled stump joined to him at the shoulder. He audibly gags at the sight of it, a harsh shudder wracking his gaunt old frame.

Markus’ fingers brush a familiarly rough surface in one of the pouches, pulling the roll of bandage from its place and clumsily unraveling it.

He has to pull Victor’s hand away at the wrist, tucking it under his arm to keep it out of his way as he ties a tight band of cloth above the wound. The blood has begun to slow, but it’s still too heavy for anything good, stopping it is remains his priority.

He can feel his palms have begun to sweat, gloves sticky and uncomfortable, hands shakey and uncoordinated. Where his panic counts the least, it’s shown the most. He’s lost friends to chaos warriors, and no matter how determined he may be to keep it from happening again, he fears that it may. 

The crunch of dead leaves under Bardin’s heavy boots almost goes unnoticed, as does the familiar noise of dying wheezes and sighs as the battle falls to a close.

“What’re you doin down there, Grimgi?” He chuckles somewhere behind Kruber, not yet aware of the severity of the situation. His chuckle trickles off as they circle around them both, Saltzpyre’s missing limb still twitching oddly on the ground at their feet. 

“Tarnus...” Sienna breaths, voice the quietest he’s ever heard it.

Bardin tugs at his shoulder, prompting him to pull away and give him room to crouch beside him for a better look. “Don’t want to bind that, Azumgi, not yet y’don’t.” He mutters softly. Kruber leans over to listen, face paleing as the dwarf explains in short hand the intricacies of battlefield amputation.

The words that stick the most are “break” and “hold”, as Bardin explains further in a hushed tone.

“Just cover it!” Victor snaps uneasily, voice hoarse and cracking with stress and pain, unable to hear either of them over the constant ringing in his ears. He’s begun to cry, cheeks stained in shimmering trails that guide his gaze down his face and neck, the collar of his tunic wet where his tears have met the fabric.

He spits, blood, saliva, and mucus dappling the knees of his trousers and the grass below him.

Bardin grimaces, motioning for Sienna to join him at ground level while he pulls away, whispering the same plan as Kruber shuffled to sit behind him. Markus pulls his belt loose from it’s loops and folds it over in his hands, thinking over what he’s been told. 

He watches Sienna pull away a moment later and Bardin nods at him, setting his shield down beside him to free up his hand for the knife Kruber had pulled from his boot a minute earlier. 

“Give him somethin’ to bite down on,” He reminds himself internally, working up the courage to follow through before he actually bleeds out. “so he doesn’t lose his tongue too.”

He takes a deep breath, quickly tucking one elbow under Victor’s armpit and pulling him back towards him by the shoulder, the other pushing its elbow against his chest as he presses the broad band of his belt to his lips.

Saltzpyre opens his mouth to protest and he forces the band of the belt further back between his teeth, he arches in his hold, pushing up off his knees and nearly bowling him over onto his back. Adrenaline boosted panic sets in as he kicks his legs, and almost immediately Sienna presses down on his knees, firmly seating herself on his calves and holding them straight and still as Bardin wraps a firm hand around what remains of his arm.

It’s a short struggle, though that makes it no easier.


	3. Adjustments

It needed to be done so that they could close and wrap his wound correctly. If they hadn’t it might’ve gotten infected, or worse he’d’ve bled out. He has to remind himself over and over, struggling to hold his pen in his left hand after nearly forty years of being predominantly right handed, that this had been necessary after his own foolish inaction.

He only had himself to blame for all this, off-balance and stung by the occasional twinges of numb pain that come so often with seared nerves and burnt flesh. The phantom pains in a limb that isn’t there. 

He’s found that, at times, he’ll still attempt to reach for items with an arm he doesn’t have and every time it happens he always just as confused, at least for a second. 

He’s found himself foiled at every turn by his own awkward inability to complete tasks that, until a week ago, he’d done without thought.

Necessary for his survival, he reminds himself, necessary and yet-

_Krubers heels digging into his stomach as he heaves sharp, gasping breaths through his teeth, his strangled and anguished shrieks piercing the mid-morning air. His gloved fingers digging into the back of the Sargent’s hand a desperate plea to be released dying upon his lips, beating uselessly at his knees and calves in a vain grasp for freedom._

_The muffled sounds of his agony as the dull knife cut into the remnants of his arm, the audible crunch as it’s humerus was broken again and pulled free of it meaty casing with a wet pop._

_The familiar sound of rent flesh, and further slick and unsavory noises as the two butchered halves of his torn skin are folded and pressed together into a semi-rounded end._

_Fire blossoming in fuegonasus’ palm as she presses her scorching hands over the wound, where he can feel his skin melt beneath her touch, blood boiling in the heat._

_Bandage wound about it to keep it closed until it could be stitched, it’s frayed, rough surface a constant irritation around his bicep._

_In too much pain to stay awake, heart beating too slow to pass out, too afraid to just up an die._

He grabs what remains of his arm and grimaces, trying to steady his breathing.

He’d still been shaking when they came through the other side of the bridge of shadows, dropping to his knees on the uneven cobbles of Taal’s Horn Keep to upend the contents of is stomach all over the floor.

Kruber did quite the same, making it to the edge of the overlook to vomit over the side of the cliff before promptly passing out on the floor.

Impressively powerful oratory or not, his screaming had left his throat sore and it itches at the recurrence of the memory, his voice left hoarse and uneven.

Markus still has a bruise the same size and shape as his hand around his wrist where he’d grabbed him, still trying to pull free out of fear and pain alone. He’d put enough pressure into it to have sprained it, though that’s long since healed.

He’d kneed Fuegonasus in the jaw at some point as well, a good sized bruise that covers almost the whole left side of her jaw and has only just begun to dull in color, though it has yet to come up in conversation and he hopes it remains as such, he feels he owes her an admission at the least.

He’s not proud of his panic, nor proud the others seem to support his increase in reclusivity. They allow him to hide away, to avoid them all, and by extension his duty.

He resents it, it and the gentility of food left outside his door, the weary eyes upon him the few times he’s left his room, the worry and remorse.

Their _pity._

He frowns down at his journal, flicking his quill against the wall and letting it tumblr back to the desk as he slumps in his chair, frustrated and cold. 

He’s upended much of his room out of pure agitation, and he aches to press that bubbling anger to holy work, the rat-men are still abound.

There is work to be done.

He wonders if the courtyard is empty.


End file.
